


Gentleman, Burglar

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, short story inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:20:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Pendragon mansion gets burgled during a soirée. Some thefts take a bit of sleight of hand. Inspired by Maurice Leblanc's Arsene Lupin stories. The title is a nod to them</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentleman, Burglar

Surrey, England, 1911

The room was dazzling; thousand candles shone like as many suns. It didn't matter that the manor had been wired for electricity three years ago, the old fashioned illumination lent the ballroom a golden aura fit for the airy palaces of long ago. 

The ballroom was a very large space, high ceilinged and imperious.

Venetian chandeliers hung from the ceiling and along the walls were huge marble urns, flowers foaming out of them in cascades and bursts. Across one end of the ballroom the long gallery unfurled itself; the other end was reserved for the orchestra. Its members were playing light classical music the guests could dance to if they chose.

Bay windows ran from floor to ceiling while white Ionic columns marked the alcoves and arched exits that dotted the room's perimeter at regular intervals. 

Wide glass doors led inside from the first floor vestibule and the main staircase: the balcony was accessible from the opposite side, though the windows were locked in place. 

The balcony itself towered over the wrap-around porch outside, giving onto a manicured lawn.

Flower garlands hung above the curtains, festooning the room as if it was May.

There was surely room for a hundred of couples and more and it seemed to Arthur that their guests probably exceeded that number. 

As he surveyed the room after his late entrance, Arthur did in fact notice the elegant crowd swirling by. Everyone was talking and drinking, a low level buzz filling the ballroom. 

The men wore impeccable evening wear; the ladies the best couture from Paris. Tiaras shone in their hair, earrings dangled from their ears and necklaces were looped around their necks. Diamonds shone and sparkled, their thousands facets reflecting the candlelight.

For a moment Arthur had to close his eyes so as not to be blinded by the glitter. And yet none of the jewels in the room rivalled the Eye of the Phoenix for splendour. 

Arthur slowly turned around to fix his eyes on the necklace, placed as it was on a bust surrounded by a bed of red velvet. The prop itself was enclosed in a glass case. 

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” Uncle Agravaine said, surprising him. 

“Yes, it is,” Arthur admitted, taking his eyes off the jewel to meet his uncle's gaze. “And I thank you for returning it to our family.”

“I felt,” said Uncle Agravaine, “that the time had come to bury the hatchet.” He sighed plaintively. “My sister loved that necklace. It was hers by all rights. It should be her son's.”

Arthur shifted from foot to foot, grabbed a glass from a passing waiter and downed its contents. “Uncle, I know my father hasn't--”

Uncle Agravaine placed a hand on Arthur's arm. “I knew he wouldn't. And I understand... rationally. I wonder what he'll do with it now.”

Arthur didn't think answering honestly would fly well. He'd tried convincing his father, telling him that donating the necklace to a charity would both be a sign of good will towards others and a way to ingratiate the du Boises. If nobody ended up owning the necklace then they could properly smooth over all quarrels. But father had been less than open in that regard. He'd said the necklace was, “Ygraine's and I'm not going to make do without another part of her.”

Arthur had been too busy swallowing around the sudden tightness in his throat to further press the point. Or to care about his uncles'sensibilities. 

“You can rest assured that he'll guard the necklace as my mother would have wanted.”

Agravaine nodded. “I'm sure that Uther will.”

Arthur would have tried to make his father look less acquisitive – even more so because he didn't believe for a moment that his father was thinking of monetary gain when he talked about keeping the necklace – if two society ladies hadn't kidnapped him right then. 

They both wanted to secure him for their daughters. “You must dance with Millicent,” one of the mothers said, tugging him one way.

“No,” said the other, tugging him the other way. “My Sarah is much more suited to him and an excellent dancer.”

“What do you mean, madam?” the first lady asked. “Are you implying that my daughter's skills as a dancer are inferior to those of yours?”

Before the ladies' indignation could soar higher, Arthur had returned his half empty glass to a waiter and offered to dance with both girls. His father's speech would come later in the evening. There was plenty of time to fulfil his duties both as host and son.

He waltzed down the room twice, first with one lady, then with the other, their dresses rustling with every loop. They turned and turned, a polite distance kept between their bodies, his right hand on the girls' waists and his left hand in the ladies' right hand.

He was leading Sarah into a spin when he saw the man enter the ballroom. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his evening jacket flowing off him impeccably. He was also lean-hipped and dark-haired, the long lines of him a joy to watch as he crossed the room with a certain lackadaisical intent to his step, a path clearing for him as the people he encountered made way for the man and his genial smiles. 

When the man raised his head, Arthur saw the softness in him too, the plump lips and the blue eyes that were wide, sparkling and gentle as the sharpness of some of his features wasn't. As his body wasn't.

Even as he danced, Arthur fastened his eyes on him.

“My Lord,” Sarah said as he drove them into another couple, “are you all right?”

Arthur blinked, tearing his eyes off the man, apologising to the other couple with a curt nod, and guiding Sarah to a quiet corner. “Yes, yes,” he said, letting go of her to tug on his suit's jacket. He patted his chest. “I'm fine, I--” 

He didn't know what to say. Politeness required he did say something, express his regret at the incident, at being so clumsy as to have led them to bump into those other dancers. He should have come up with an excuse for having cut the lady's fun short. But he couldn't find the words. Mostly because he was trying to catch another glimpse of the man that had caught his attention before, angling his former dancing partner, who was thankfully blessedly short enough to allow him to do so, so that his eyes could keep trailing him.

However, when the silence between him and his dancing partner became too noticeable, he added, “But my head span for a moment, and... I'd better not dance anymore. I'll lead you to your mother.”

Sarah huffed, gathered her skirts up and said, “There's no need, thank you, My Lord.”

Arthur grabbed her shoulder, stopping her from turning around. “Please, allow me.”

She tipped her head up, studied his apologetic features, relented and nodded.

He cracked a smile and she returned it.

They made it over to her mother. He bowed to both ladies, excusing himself again for not having finished the dance. He was assured that they understood his position. “With those windows closed,” Sarah's mother said, “the room is too stuffy. A headache is but the natural result. Vitiated air.”

He smiled; they smiled. He left.

For a while Arthur couldn't find the man anywhere. He scanned the ballroom, the dancing couples, the clusters of people standing by the sidelines and couldn't find him. He haunted the room, gliding down the little lane that had been cleared for those who were not dancing. And he didn't find him. 

He peeked out the ballroom and took a stroll on the landing outside and found no one but a couple whose proposal he interrupted.

Coughing and retreating, a small smile on his lips, he stumbled back into the ballroom. And then he saw him. He was standing by the glass case containing the necklace, downing a glass of champagne, his neck exposed, his throat working. That neck was long and pale, a neck to put kisses upon, framed as it was by the starch purity of a white shirt as candid as the wings of a dove.

Arthur approached him. “It's beautiful, isn't it?”

“Baubles,” the man said. “Baubles of the privileged.”

Arthur laughed. “Then why are you looking at it?”

“Because it's shiny,” said the man. “I love shiny things.”

“Really? That's what you're going with?”

The man looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, which were twinkling. His lips turned up just a little. “Yes,” he said decisively. “Yes, absolutely. I didn't look because I was enticed by the value of the thing. It's its beauty. It's a principle with me.”

“Then you just admire the craftsmanship?”

The man sank his teeth into his lower lip, right where it bowed. It made Arthur think of sex, of a kiss withheld during orgasm, of pleasure given that's so sharp it tastes like pain. It made him want to take those lips between his and unfocused his thoughts, dissolved them in a swirl of impure imaginings. “I like beauty.”

“I do too,” Arthur said, raking his eyes over the man's form. 

“Is that why you're looking at this? The Eye of the Phoenix, I believe it is called?”

“No,” Arthur said, “no, that's not the beauty I'm looking at.”

The man turned his head, almost a double take that was quickly smoothed over. One Arthur didn't miss though. “So it's...”

“Yes, to everything you're thinking of.” Arthur couldn't restrain himself. Couldn't even bear to stand as far apart from this man as politeness dictated. It was a gamble, but one he was encouraged to take by the man's half smile.

“There's quite a number of things I'm imagining right now,” the man said.

Arthur shifted closer, their trousers brushing together. “Do tell.”

The man shook his head, a smile accompanying the move. “I don't think my fancies are fit for...” He swiped a hand at the room. “Society.”

“We could go,” Arthur suggested.

“You'd leave a party in full swing?”

“Yes,” said Arthur, “without a doubt.” He wetted his suddenly dry lips. “But we won't have to. There's many rooms in this house.”

The man nodded. “But what would the owner say?”

Arthur strained in place, wanting to touch the man but unable to in public. “I don't care, nothing,” said Arthur. “Nothing.”

“If this was my house,” said the man, trailing off, his meaning clear emough.

“They'll never find us,” said Arthur, knowing full well he could turn the key in the lock and keep the world outside. Take this man and...

“All right,” said the other man. “Let's get out of here.”

Arthur led him upstairs, leading the way even though he was probably giving his hand away. He pushed open the door to his room, the one he used when he was here in the country and not in London playing the fashionable man about town.

“Are you sure?” his companion said, “that we can slip in here and...” He left the sentence dangling.

“Yes,” said Arthur, “yes.”

He closed the door behind them and turned the key in the lock. 

For a moment they looked at each other, Arthur trembling in place, the other man a little amused but looking different now, as though he'd dropped the mask and could allow himself to appear as hungry for touch as Arthur was.

If Arthur hadn't read that measure of longing in him, he wouldn't have proceeded. The dancing eyes and the uplifted eyebrow would have embarrassed him into not moving, into sticking to his reserved manners, even if he'd thrown all sort of restraint out of the window downstairs. And liberally enough. But the man's open hunger made him glad he'd burned bridges, that he'd used the right words to entice him.

Arthur kissed him with his mouth open. Their tongues met hot and fast, mingling in each other's mouths, twisting together. The man's threaded his fingers through his hair, pulling at the strands that would otherwise have fallen across Arthur's forehead, his other hand cupping Arthur's left arse cheek.

Arthur's body was fired with arousal instantly.

But even so Arthur drew back. “Your name,” he said, before moving to the other man's ear, then neck, that neck he'd been wanting to run his lips over from the moment he'd set eyes on this splendid stranger. “Tell me your name.”

There was a pause Arthur used to tease the man's neck with wet kisses, a shallow breath and then, “Ambrose, my name's Ambrose.”

Arthur pulled away. “Ambrose,” he said and leaned forward, taking Ambrose's mouth with his, his lips still parted, his tongue seeking Ambrose's, drawing it into his mouth, sucking it. 

Ambrose's hands slid down his spine while his hips snapped forward, bringing their crotches together for one incendiary moment.

“I want you,” Arthur said, palming Ambrose's arms while still nibbling at the skin he could get at. “I want to lie down with you.”

Arthur felt the nudge of Ambrose's teeth when their kiss ended, the nip at the hot pulse of his neck. Then Ambrose pushed him away and started stripping, his hands doing away with knots and fastenings, cummerbund and buttons as if by magic. Arthur envied him the smoothness.

Finding himself fully dressed in the face of Ambrose's incipient nakedness, Arthur hurried to catch up.

He stripped in the way he always did, the way he'd learnt in boarding school, and yet his hands wouldn't match his usual rhythms, feverish and quick as they now were. When his clothes came off, he didn't fold them, he let them flit down, sticking his chest out and forcing himself to drop his arms so they were resting by his sides. His cock swelled some more under Ambrose's scrutiny.

“You're gorgeous,” said Ambrose. “A rare find.”

The low register of those sounds filled Arthur's cock even further. It also spurred him to act. He pulled Ambrose on top of him on the bed. 

Ambrose went, a half-sweet, half-cocky smile on his lips as he settled against Arthur's body, his knees either side of his hips. He put his face alongside Arthur's cheek, nuzzled him as he moved over him.

Smirking devilishly, he slid down Arthur's body, running half-parted lips down his chest, stopping to lick at nipples, working them into sharp points. Wherever they went, Ambrose's moist lips lips left wet marks. 

Arthur groaned and twisted under Ambrose's tongue, carding fingers through his nest of dark hair, his breathing becoming hitched.

Ambrose's hands slid down his sides to check Arthur's impulse to buck.

Meanwhile, Ambrose's mouth meandered downwards; he put butterfly nibbles all the way to Arthur's taut stomach. And when his tongued reached Arthur's navel, Arthur's heartbeat sped up.

When Ambrose started nuzzling the trail of hair below that point Arthur's breathing altogether stopped for a succession of moments, his cock leaking beady drops of come on his stomach, where it lay turgid and strained.

“Ambrose,” Arthur grunted. 

Ambrose took him in his hand, holding him at the base and licking his whole cock from shaft to head before taking it into his mouth and sucking hard.

Arthur's body rose, his hips snapping, his breathing going savage and so loud as to pierce his own ears. He cursed and twisted sideways but Ambrose didn't let go, holding him down, finally pushing him down his throat and enveloping him in a wet fire that sent Arthur's senses reeling.

So out of it as not to care about being nice, Arthur thrust his hips in feral snaps, biting at the base of his thumb so as not to shout. He locked his legs around Ambrose's shoulders and pushed up and up into his mouth till his pleasure crested and he was coming long and hard, tilting his head back in and letting out one protracted exhalation.

When Arthur came round, his sense of time, space and self returning, Ambrose kissed him. Arthur tasted himself on Ambrose's lips and that made him long for the man even more, even if he was done and Ambrose wasn't, even if by all rational standards he should call himself content.

And with others he would have been. He'd have been satisfied and glowing, his interest in protracting the encounter diminished.

Instead, when Ambrose opened him with his spit and Arthur's own come, with steady careful fingers and a patience Arthur wouldn't have thought any man so far gone as him to be capable of, Arthur found himself wanting this part of the experience too. He wanted Ambrose to have him, he wanted to watch him do it. He wanted Ambrose to come undone because of him. 

It seemed like it would happen exactly as Arthur wanted it. Ambrose fit himself inside him, thick and hot. Arthur slid his legs down to wrap around those lean hips of Ambrose's, and Ambrose, so spurred, moved.

Arthur was still dizzy with his previous orgasm so he let Ambrose do all the work, watching him carefully, for each gasp, for each frown, counting the lines that appeared on his forehead when he thrust.

He drank his kisses and his touches. Arthur stared at Ambrose's down-turned face to catch a sight of the beauty that was this man in motion, to see his eyes go dark and his muscles go tense with the effort of sex. They kissed as Ambrose pumped his hips, kissed with clinging kisses that seemed to mean much more to Arthur than any kisses that he'd haver given or taken in his life.

Back tense with a last thrust, Ambrose whispered in his ear,“ Call me Merlin.” 

Arthur did. He couldn't not. Ambrose's eyes almost glowed with it, becoming darker, the blue of the iris swirling with earthier tones, and came, wetting Arthur with his come. In the aftershocks of his pleasure, Ambrose slumped on top of Arthur, welcome like a long lost lover.

When, a while later, Ambrose propped himself up on his elbows, he looked at Arthur with bright and fearless eyes. 

Arthur felt himself moved so much by that look that he would have said something unbearably stupid if Ambrose hadn't cupped his chin in his big hand and given him a last lingering kiss. “We'll have to sneak downstairs separately.”

Arthur made a sign 'yes' with his head although he didn't sit up or dislodge his companion. He turned his head instead, not quite able to meet Ambrose's eyes now that they were focused on him and not wide with the pleasure he was chasing. 

Ambrose was in his arms though, not shifting, his weight a weight Arthur would have happily borne all night, cosy on him. 

Their breathing became steadier and Ambrose put a kiss to his temple, murmuring words into his skin. “Remember how beautiful you are,” he said. “And lovely. I'd spend the whole night with you if I just could.”

“They won't miss us,” Arthur said, grabbing at Ambrose's thigh, “the people downstairs.” That was only partly true. His father would miss him, but nobody would notice Ambrose's absence. He, for one, had invited no Ambrose, so he wasn't an important guest. Nobody would wonder about him. The night's schedule could unfold perfectly well without him. This meant that Ambrose could stay unless, of course, he was with friends who might wonder where he'd ended up. 

“We shouldn't, should we?” Ambrose said, moving as if to tear himself away but taking Arthur's mouth in the rawest kiss Arthur had ever experienced even while doing so. When they broke apart, he cupped Arthur's neck. “Stunning, stunning man,” he said, pressing his lips against Arthur's mouth, cheekbones and nose. “Incredible.” 

He wrested himself away then, dressing quickly but not haphazardly. Soon he was so nicely turned out that it looked as though he hadn't been here with Arthur at all. As though Ambrose hadn't given Arthur what he had.

It made Arthur recover his lost self control and his face set in a semblance of detached politeness.

Or so he hoped.

Howsoever it might be, he picked himself up from the bed, feeling both sore and drowsy, and raked up the clothes he'd so carelessly scattered before. 

He was standing, his clothes draped over his arm, when Ambrose darted close to cup his thigh and kiss him again, lingeringly sweetly.

Arthur's cock twitched despite having spent itself a few minutes prior to this. 

Ambrose noticed, ticked an eyebrow and fisted him, a brief tug. Arthur was already gasping by then but then Ambrose smiled, a smile that made his face crinkly beautiful, thumbed Arthur's lip, and drew back.

He'd left before Arthur could say anything.

Alone and less than happy about it, Arthur finished dressing, poured himself a glass of water, and sat on the bed. He'd give himself a few minutes to find his composure. That was it. Breathe and relax. Except he couldn't, because the bed smelt of them, he himself smelt like sex and the sheets were rumpled right where he'd lain. A cogent memento.

It was no good. Arthur could almost taste their kisses and could still feel Ambrose's weight on him. Recreate his smile in his mind. In short, strange as it might sound, he already missed Ambrose, missed having his limbs wrapped around his and the play of Ambrose's fingers on his body, the way his eyes sparkled and his mouth softened into wonder-filled smiles.

He wanted that back. Have another shot at Ambrose. He wanted their encounter to be more than the slightly hurried sex they'd just shared. There were many things they hadn't done and could do.

He knew it wasn't impossible. He could yet recreate this same scenario. If he got Ambrose to agree, they could meet again and then he wouldn't have to relive a memory. He could make new ones.

He was unattached and Ambrose hadn't behaved as though he had a lover. In short, he could get Ambrose back. Arthur thought himself personable enough to be able to attract the same person twice. Especially now that he knew that Ambrose liked him. They could have sex once more. Maybe not within the next few hours, but when the guests were gone, it'd be possible. 

Arthur would own up to his name and arrange for more meetings. 

Decision made, Arthur stood up, patted down the creases his clothing had acquired since being scattered all over the floor and put them on quickly. He left the room.

His step quickened on his way down and he was almost jogging when he got to the ballroom again. Still planning his next move, he pushed past a couple obstructing the wide double doors only to be surprised by a chorus of alarmed noises and gasps. Needing to know what was up, he shouldered his way past another group of guests. He followed their line of sight and his jaw slipped open when he saw what they'd already seen.

The glass case containing the Eye of the Phoenix was empty but still sealed closed. The jewel had vanished. And it didn't seem to be the only object to have met that end. Given the angry murmurs, Arthur quickly found out that so had some other pieces of jewellery the guests had worn. 

As if he could spot the thief among the swirl of vociferous people around him, Arthur whirled round, but he couldn't pinpoint the culprit. No one appeared particularly guilty.

The loudest among the guests were those bemoaning the loss of their precious heirlooms, not the fugitive criminal. 

A woman in particular came to his attention because she was hitting her husband with her fan. Apparently she blamed him for not having protected her properly.

“But you weren't attacked,” her husband responded. “It must have been a sleight of hand affair. How could I have stopped it if I didn't see it happening?”

The wife hit her husband some more, calling him insensitive. "It was my favourite necklace! You'll have to buy me another. No, two."

Arthur almost smiled at the couple's antics when he was hit by a rush of air. One that recalled him to the here and now. Refocusing, he pushed forwards and saw that the floor to ceiling windows leading onto the balcony were now thrown open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. 

“Impossible,” Arthur said, before hurrying over. “They were old and stuck into place.” One of the reasons why he'd had them garlanded; the ornamentation wouldn't be torn down by any errant lick of wind. Still nonplussed, he stepped onto the balcony itself in time to see a man in evening wear run at full speed down the lawn.

“Arthur,” Father said, “I think we'll have to call the police.”

Arthur didn't turn, his eyes on the fugitive. "A moment, Father." The moment he'd called for was a moment during which Arthur gritted his teeth and balled his fists.

“Arthur,” Father insisted, “that man can be stopped.”

“Yes, Father, give me a second.”

The police, in the shape of two men from the local country constabulary, arrived too late to catch the thief, of course. But they did question the witnesses. From what he overheard, Arthur gathered that no one had seen anything of note, nor had anyone noticed when their pockets had been picked or their jewels abstracted. 

One moment the guests' belongings were there, the next, they weren't. Gone, like magic.

When Arthur's turn came to be questioned, he led the officers into the small drawing room and then passed into a smaller adjoining space, which he liked to call his study. 

“I suspect,” the constable said, “that you know no more than your guests.”

Arthur's head snapped up. He met the constable's eyes briefly then let his gaze wander over his desk. He picked up a paper weight and toyed with it before answering. “Unfortunately, you're right. I don't. I was in another room at the time.”

“And where were you, if I may ask?”

“In my room,” Arthur said, “the music had given me a headache.”

The constable's aid, a country lad seemingly lent to the job by an unkind fate, scribbled down Arthur's answers.

“What did you see when you came back down?” the constable asked, his tones less than polite.

“Nothing,” said Arthur. “The Eye of the Phoenix was already missing; the protective case had been left untouched.”

The constable tapped at his belt. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary tonight?” He tossed a gloved hand about. “Aside from the obvious.”

Arthur put the paperweight he'd been playing with down and leant against the desk, crossing arms and ankles. He looked up at the man questioning him. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Do you suspect anyone of this theft?”

Arthur shook his head, lips pinched together. “No.”

“Not even your uncles?”

“Uncle Agravaine returned the jewel,” said Arthur, “he could have kept it if he'd wanted to. It would have been rather convoluted of him to give it back only to steal it.”

“What about your other uncle?”

Arthur scoffed. “He's more likely to challenge my father to a duel than to steal from him,” Arthur said, wanting to protect his relatives despite the years of family quarrels. 

That too was duly noted.

“What kind of security did you put in place?” the constable asked. “I assume the necklace was worth quite a lot.”

Arthur explained.

At last the constable said, “So, to sum up, not all the jewels that were on your guests are gone. The thief has apparently taken only the finest stones. Also, this theft must have been committed when you weren't there, but under the eyes of all. And yet the thief was not seen. Nobody was spotted close to the case roundabout the time the deed was perpetrated.”

Arthur held both his hands up. “The thief must have been waiting for the perfect moment,” Arthur said, honestly wondering how such a theft could have taken place. He thought he understood some of it, but not the mechanics.

“The thief must have approached the case,” said the constable, flicking his moustache. “Ghosts don't steal.”

Arthur chuckled. “I'm sure there was nothing supernatural about tonight's occurrence.”

The constable grunted. “As long as you find this funny, My Lord.”

Arthur straightened. “I don't.” He pushed off the desk. “Now, if that is all?”

It was though the police only left some time short of dawn, keeping the recalcitrant guests in place so they could be questioned thoroughly. With only two policemen to do the job it was a miracle everyone was actually asked to make some kind of statement and that those statements were gathered before the sun was more than a speck on the horizon.

At last, tough, everybody went, leaving the Pendragon mansion as empty as it usually was. The lawn was now clear of cars as the rooms were of guests. The ballroom was but an empty shell still done up for a celebration that was now over. Only Arthur and his father were left in place.

Finally alone, his father having eventually gone to sleep, Arthur undid his bow tie, opened his shirt, and went upstairs.

Once in his room, he laid himself face down on the pillow, still completely clothed but for his shoes, cummerbund and tie. He closed his eyes and picked a scent off the pillowcase that should by all rights already have evaporated.

Heart-beat quickening, he squeezed the pillow, but then, too tired and wrung out to keep awake, he fell asleep.

In the morning he found a note pinned down on his night-stand, a bejewelled bodkin that was likely worth a fortune, keeping it in place.

The note said, “Thank you for the wonderful night and the splendid occasion, My Lord. I hope we can do it again one day, Merlin.”

Arthur tapped the note against his lips. He ought to have been angry, both at the contents and the tone. But he smiled. He smiled all morning. 

 


End file.
